


unknown land

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Canadian Shack, Character Gets Hypothermia and has to be Cuddled back to Health, Characters A and B take care of hurt/ill Character C whom they both love, Episode: s04e20 Terra Incognita, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, M/M, Stuck in a Blizzard (TOGETHER), waiting to see if someone both characters love recovers from a serious illness/injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: They go into the middle of nowhere to save John. While they're there, they might just save themselves.
Relationships: Harold Finch/Lionel Fusco/John Reese
Comments: 15
Kudos: 45
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	unknown land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



The car lurches, slips a few feet backwards down the icy road, and Harold clutches the bar over the passenger side door.

“Relax,” Detective Fusco grumbles, knuckles white on the gear shift. “I got it, I got it. Relax.”

Finch tears his eyes away from the snow whirling outside the car window, from the flickering and inconsistent bars on his phone. He clears his throat. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Just don’t freak out.” His voice comes in short, blustery growls. He’s frightened too, Harold knows. “If you freak out, I’ll freak out.”

* * *

Detective Fusco asks him to go into the cabin first, to prepare. Harold can tell that’s not a request made lightly; that’s evident from the pained crease on his forehead. He’s engaged in grim mental arithmetic in his head: how likely John is to bleed out or freeze before they get him inside, how high the possibility of a dangerous perpetrator still lurking in the cabin is, how thoroughly John will kill him if his incompetence gets Harold hurt. It’s all there on his face, in the weak light that spills from the open car door as he holds Reese upright to stop him from falling in the snow.

When he asks, it comes out cringingly: “Could you…?”

“You’re the only one who can lift him,” Harold assures, tucking the first aid kit under his arm. “I’ll go inside and get ready.”

He’s less certain than he sounds, of course. Harold makes his way delicately, gingerly, across the icy lawn towards the cabin. His smooth-soled oxfords weren’t made for this kind of weather.

He didn’t expect this. He wasn’t even worried about John - properly worried - until Fusco called him a few hours ago. Left to his own devices, he might’ve given John his space, left him alone for another few hours. Perhaps overnight. He might’ve sat at home, relaxing with wine or a good book, while John froze to death in a car.

It’s a disquieting idea.

The dead man on the lawn certainly isn’t helping.

A cursory examination reveals that the man has been shot, and also has a gun of his own, clutched tight in one bone-white hand. If Harold were prone to speculation - and he is - he might surmise that this man tried to kill John, and was killed in return. If that’s the case, Harold’s sympathy for him is limited.

“That guy dead?” Fusco shouts over the howling wind. His voice strains under the weight of John, slumped in his arms.

“I believe so,” Harold shouts in return. “I’ll look into it later.”

“Wait for me!” Fusco calls, still struggling with John. “Don’t go in there alone!”

Harold ignores him and presses on, wedging his feet into iced-over footholds in the snow until he’s finally in the relative shelter of the porch. Harold scuffs his shoes on the doormat out of habit. He finds the cabin door unlocked.

There’s another man on the floor inside the cabin. This one, Harold recognizes: Chase Patterson, their Number. Harold nearly forgot about him. He’s pale and sickly, uncomfortably still. His breath comes in weak, shallow gasps.

He can wait, but not for long.

Harold leaves him for now and opens the door to what seems to be the master bedroom. He wrenches back the dusty coverlet, leaving behind clean white sheets. He unpacks his first aid kit.

He hears the loud thud of Fusco kicking open the door. “Oh, Jesus,” Harold hears him mutter. “Not another one.”

Harold calls to him: “In here, Detective!”

Fusco moves with a careful, diligent slowness, minding where John’s limbs loll. He holds John like a bride, close to the chest, John’s head resting on his shoulder. “Tried not to jostle him around too much,” Fusco says as he lowers him down to the bed. “But he’s a big guy. Just feels like there’s no good way…”

“You did very well, Detective.” Harold casts his jacket aside and rolls up his shirtsleeves. “Could you help me with…?”

He really looks at John for the first time since they arrived and immediately wishes he hadn’t. It’s unsettling to see John’s face all slack and bloodless. His usually active body is limp, his face shines with sweat, his hair is plastered down and his eyelashes are dark and wet.

Because he’s been crying. Harold can see it, the sticky trail a tear left behind. Harold wrenches his gaze downward, to the blood leaking through the front of John’s shirt. “Could you help?” he repeats.

Fusco is already struggling with the buttons.

They’re not gifted in this area, either of them. Harold understands the principle of the thing, the steps that must be taken to make John stable, but feels himself go lightheaded at the sight of fresh blood spilling across John’s stomach. Fusco doesn’t seem bothered by the blood, just presses a towel harder to the wound, but seems at a loss for what to do other than hold back the tide. They're two rank amateurs trying to seem confident for each other’s benefit.

The world seems to shrink. There’s no deep forest, no storm howling outside, no cabin walls creaking with age and pressure. It’s just this room, this bed, his and Fusco’s hands working. The crinkle of medical supplies removed from their paper packaging, the gentle splash of water in a bowl, the persistent flicker of John’s pulse in his blue-veined wrist.

Finch regresses, becomes a human textbook, reciting the recommended procedure. Fusco applies pressure when he’s told, goes to get more water and towels when he’s told, and barely says a word. It’s his own form of regression. They’re busy and near silent. Finch tries not to look at John’s face.

Together, they manage to patch the wound.

It only takes a handful of minutes. To Finch, it feels like hours. It must feel that way to Fusco too, because he slumps at the foot of the bed with a soft groan, head down, hands between his knees.

“So,” he asks, throat dry, “how do you want to handle this?” He’s wiping his fingers clean with a dishtowel purloined from the kitchen. It has a lobster embroidered on it. There are no lobsters, not for miles.

“How do you mean?” Finch asks.

“I mean, where do we go from here? I’d say throw him in the car and drive him to the nearest hospital, but...we’re not driving back tonight. Not on these roads. So we’re gonna have to call for help. Right?” He lifts one hand, waits for a response from Harold that doesn’t come. He pushes onward. “Am I calling this in? If I call it in, can you be here when help comes or do we need to...to get you out of here somehow? Or are you gonna handle it in some...some billionaire way and we don’t report...we _have_ to report this, right?” Fusco rubs his temples, gets a tiny smudge of blood on his hairline. “Cop gets shot, you have to have your story straight.”

John’s not a cop, of course, but Fusco’s commitment to the lie is oddly charming. Harold sweeps his concerns aside. “I’ll let you know,” Harold tells him, “if that’s something you need to be worried about.”

Fusco nods, slow and thoughtful. Being told that he needn’t concern himself with their business used to bring Fusco a modicum of relief, but Harold can see little creases around his mouth, his eyes, that show he’s still troubled. But he’s free now, to think about other things. The first thing he thinks is this: “The kid in the other room. He’s the one you’re supposed to be looking after?”

Harold sighs deeply. “He is, yes.”

“Well, you’re doing a bang-up job. You know if he’s friendly or not?”

Harold looks imploringly at John’s sleeping face. “It’s…difficult to say.”

When Fusco stands, one of his knees makes a soft popping sound. “This guy knows,” Fusco says, patting John’s shin with weighty fondness. “But I guess we don’t get to find out until he wakes up. You see the pharmacy on the coffee table? I’m not a detective or anything but I think that kid OD’d.”

“Astute,” Harold remarks. “Patterson does have a history of drug abuse. But I’m afraid my medical acumen is limited to slapping a bandage over a cut and dispensing pain medication. I don’t know what I can do besides make him comfortable.”

Fusco pulls the first aid kit close to him, starts sorting through with a scavenger’s discernment. “I’m gonna go see what I can do for him.”

“You?”

Fusco’s lip curls. “Yeah. I was in Vice for a minute.”

“And?”

“And?” he repeats. “And I’ve seen some shit. I’m not a doctor or anything but...maybe I can help. Unless you got a better idea, smart guy?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, then,” he says, pocketing a small assortment from Harold’s overstocked, seldom-explored first aid kit. “Wish me luck, I guess.”

He slams the door as he leaves the room. Harold is sure he doesn’t mean to, it’s just...nerves, he supposes. Exhaustion. Frustration, perhaps.

He has a right, Harold thinks, to be frustrated. They keep him on his toes so often. He didn’t sign up for this.

Or, Harold thinks, remembering how Fusco called him and told him fearfully that Reese was pursuing something he shouldn’t, perhaps he did.

Harold collapses onto the bed beside John with a gentle wheeze. John doesn’t stir. Harold braces his back against the headboard, lifts his feet onto the bed without bothering to kick off his shoes. A cardinal sin, Harold reflects, but he is very tired. In one hand, he holds his phone, silently willing the storm to break.

His other hand drifts against the sleeve of John’s shirt. The cotton is eerily cold and crisp against his knuckles. Harold expects the arm beneath - corded with muscle, dusted with fine hair - to impart some sort of heat to the fabric.

It doesn’t.

Harold sits up a little, straining his back ever-so-slightly, and grasps John’s wrist. There’s a pulse to be found there, flickering and fragile. Harold holds tight to that pulse, nurtures it beneath his fingertips. He chafes John’s chapped, calloused hand.

It’s monstrously cold.

Almost absently, Harold lifts John’s hand to his mouth, tries to warm it with his hot breath.

There’s a sudden, rasping intake of breath, a leap in the pulse. John’s hand twitches in Harold’s grasp.

He turns, alarmed, to see John looking up at him, eyes half-shut with sleep.

“You’re here?” John asks. He sounds confused. Exhausted. Dehydrated.

“Oh,” Harold says, grappling for the water on the nightstand. His voice has a tremor to it that he can’t quite suppress. “Oh, of course I’m here. How...how are you?”

John chuckles, or tries to. “Bad,” he says. “A little warm,” he adds.

Harold’s heart gives a sickening thud. “Can you take a painkiller?” he asks.

John rasps, “Yes.” His eyes are liquid, grateful.

John swallows the pill with water that Harold tips into his mouth in tiny, careful increments. Harold finds himself taking heart from the stupidest things. John has the wherewithal to take a pill. The flex of his throat as he swallows seems strong. He manages to lift himself a little, before Harold begs him to lie back. _He must be fine_ , Harold thinks to himself.

Well, he’d like it to be true.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold asks as he lowers John’s head to the pillow, “what happened here?”

In the moment before his eyes slip shut, even John doesn’t seem to know. He falls asleep almost instantly. His hand, when Harold clutches it once again, is still icy.

Harold wastes a little time watching John’s chest rise and fall. An exercise in reassurance, he supposes, although not a particularly productive one. Outside the door, he hears voices: first raised, then soft. He glances at his phone. No bars. He forces himself to get out of bed. Before, he goes, he covers John up to the chin with a heavy quilt.

It’s a nice enough cabin, he finds as he closes the door to the master bedroom with utmost care. Not as it is right now, chilly and inhospitable and plastic-wrapped. But once. There’s art on the walls that someone selected with care, board games crammed onto the lower shelf of a bookcase. People spent time here. People were happy here.

The spot on the floor where Chase Patterson once lay is now bare. Unrelated, but it’s encouraging.

Harold glances at his phone. Still no bars. How can people live like this?

There are a few other doors that Harold hasn’t explored. One is hanging wide open: a bathroom in disarray. One is closed, but cheerful articifical light spills out from beneath the crack in the door.

It’s the kitchen, Harold finds, outfitted in blonde wood and cheery yellow curtains. There’s a bottle opener bolted to the wall, just under the light switch, and fine linen dish towels hanging from the oven door handle. Monied, but unpretentiously so. Fusco stands at the sink, washing a cup. Chase Patterson sits at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket like a sullen teenager who dragged himself in for breakfast at noon.

Fusco’s saying to him, “You’re doing better than I would be, kid.”

Patterson looks worse than he did when Harold found him on the floor, if that’s possible. He’s so pale as to be green and sweating. He’s shivering so hard he can barely stay on his chair.

Fusco pushes a now-clean cup of water into Patterson’s hands. “Drink this. See how you feel. Hey, Glasses,” he adds as an afterthought.

Patterson holds the glass with both hands, gingerly. “I think I need a doctor.”

Fusco pats him hard on his shoulder. “We’re on the same page, pal. It’s just a question of how soon we can get you one.” He looks up at Harold. “This one’s kinda touch and go. How’s Wonderboy?”

“He woke up, for a moment. Now he’s sleeping again. How did you…?”

Fusco leans on the table, sly and confident. “I got my ways.”

“He dosed me with Narcan and made me throw up,” Patterson interjects, bitterly. “Who _are_ you people?”

Fusco shoots Harold a nervous look and Harold takes control. “That’s not important right now, Mr. Patterson. What _is_ important is that you and Detective Riley are both in need of medical attention. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to get a signal to call for help and the roads are not safe. We may be here for some time.”

Patterson takes a deep breath, pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “OK.”

“Perhaps if the storm breaks, I might be able to place a call…”

Patterson’s already shaking his head. “Service up here has always been garbage. My dad used to drive into town every time he needed to make a call.” He trails off. A deep sadness seems to well up in him. He presses it down, carries on. “But, uh, it’s been a while since I’ve been here. Maybe there are more towers now.”

“I’ll keep trying,” Harold promises. He pulls back one of the rickety wooden chairs and takes a seat. “In the meantime, are you well enough to tell us what happened here?”

Fusco rests his hand on the back of Harold’s chair and leans there, ready to listen.

Chase Patterson spins them a strange story, one that he seems unsure of himself. Not because he seems to be lying, but because he seems to scarcely understand what’s happened to him over the past few hours. It’s a tale of a murdered family, a long-lost half-brother in disguise as a doorman, a slow poisoning. He drains his glass of water as he speaks.

When he finishes, Fusco diligently refills his glass. “It’s a wild story, pal.”

“I don’t care if you believe it,” he says, throat ragged. “It’s what happened.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t believe it. Just said it was wild. How’re you feeling?”

Patterson opens his mouth, considers for a moment. “Better,” he admits. “Better with the water.”

“That’s good,” Fusco tells him. “Let’s not count on it, though. You need anything, or if you start to feel off, you yell for me, OK?”

Patterson nods. He keeps drinking.

“Detective?” Harold plucks at the sleeve of Fusco’s jacket. “May I have a word?”

“Sure you can, Glasses. And I’ll check on you,” Fusco adds as he lets Harold lead him out of the room, “if you get too quiet. You’re gonna get through this. You hear me?”

Patterson allows himself the smallest of smiles. “OK.”

The kitchen door swings shut, hiding him from view.

In the gloom of the living room, Fusco asks, sotto voice, “You buy all that?”

“You seemed to.”

Fusco shrugs. “Sure, I seemed to. Either he almost got killed or he’s a killer. Either way, I want him to think I’m his pal.” Fusco takes a deep breath. “Kinda believe him, though. Feels too weird to be a lie. Know what I mean?”

Fusco’s reasoning is, bizarrely, sound. “I do. Based on how things seem to have played out, I’m inclined to think Chase Patterson is a victim, rather than a perpetrator.” Harold pulls at Fusco’s sleeve again, as if to physically drag him back on track. “John is _very_ cold.”

Fusco frowns. “How cold we talkin’?”

“ _Worryingly_ cold. I need to step outside and see if I can call for help. Can you…?”

“Right. Right.” Fusco rakes a hand through his hair, reorders the situation in his mind. “I’m gonna park the kid on the couch where I can keep an eye on him, and then I’ll go check on Wonderboy. See what I can do.”

 _The kid._ Patterson’s nearly thirty. All the same, Harold tells him, “Thank you.”

“Don’t be out there too long,” Fusco adds as he slips back into the kitchen. “Catch your fuckin’ death.”

“Thank you,” Harold says to the closed kitchen door.

Outdoors, the weather has turned ugly. The snow, once merely fluffy and exuberant, is now icy and cutting. The steps freeze. The ground freezes. The wind screams, sends tree branches whipping against the dark sky. Harold huddles on the porch as he flips from network to network with one ungloved hand.

In desperation, Harold leaves the safety of the porch. He stands in the middle of the yard, the closest thing he has to a clearing. He prays for bars.

They’re not going anywhere.

He fights against the wind to reach Fusco’s car. It’s already covered with a luxurious blanket of snow, the door already crusted with ice when Harold pries it open. He takes out his overnight bag - Harold’s never been accused of under-preparing - and limps, defeated, back to the cabin.

He has to shut the door with his whole body against the storm. Fusco, true to his word, has relocated Chase Patterson to the couch. He sits there now, wrapped in two additional blankets, a steaming mug beside him on the end table, a weak fire crackling in the grate. Patterson regards Harold with dim curiosity as he industriously stomps the snow from his boots.

“That was a good idea,” Harold remarks. “The fire.”

Patterson shrugs. “Thanks. It was no big deal.”

Harold gestures towards the mug. “Detective Fusco made coffee?”

“Tea. He said the caffeine might help.” He pauses. “That guy’s a detective?”

“I’m afraid so. Is it? Helping, I mean.”

“I dunno,” he says. “I’m alive. For now.”

Harold supposes that’s all Patterson can ask for at this stage. He hangs up his coat and hat, leaves his shoes by the door. He hefts the overnight bag and goes off to the master bedroom to see if Fusco has succeeded in warming John.

He’s alarmed to see the covers torn back from the bed, to see John lying there, ashen and still, stripped to his underwear. To see Fusco, shrugging his way out of his workshirt, baring his broad shoulders.

Bereft of critiques, of thoughts other than the shadows of John’s ribs, the muscles in Fusco’s back, Harold snaps, “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

Fusco turns to look at him while undoing the zipper on his trousers with an unsettling kind of confidence. “Figure it out, genius.”

Fusco’s clothes are strewn about, disorderly: a belt here, a shoe there. John’s clothes, too, have been unceremoniously tossed on the floor, which Harold can’t help but wince at. Not that they haven’t experienced worse, but this feels genuinely unnecessary. There must be hangers in the closet.

He’s thinking about hangers to avoid thinking about John’s flat stomach, the white scar that winds up his thigh. The freckles on Fusco’s shoulders, which Finch never expected to strike him in such a way. Harold’s eyes dart away, to the hot water bottle laid under John’s feet. “You’re going to warm him up.”

“Bingo, champ.” He kicks his way out of his trousers without much respect for the fabric, peels his undershirt off over his head. The bed groans as Fusco climbs into bed beside John and draws up the quilt. “I could only find one hot water bottle,” Fusco says as he shifts around, trying to get comfortable. “That’s what they use for this kinda thing in hospitals. Or heated blankets. I think they’ll use a heart-lung machine if it gets real bad. Shit we don’t have, for the most part. Another body’s pretty warm, though.” At last, Fusco settles, pressed against John’s side. “You getting in or what?”

His flagrant disregard for boundaries leaves Harold momentarily voiceless. “Me?”

“Sure.” Fusco answers, peering at him over John’s body. “Use all the help we can get, right?

“Sh-” Harold’s long-dead stutter momentarily resurfaces, is swiftly pushed back down. “Shouldn’t somebody be looking after Mr. Patterson?”

Fusco sneaks one hand out from under the quilt to wave dismissively. “I got it. I set a timer to go off every so often so I remember to check on him. Poor guy doesn’t need me up his ass every second, you know?”

With their bodies covered - John to the chin, Fusco to the shoulders - it’s easier to look at the problem in terms of logistics. Perhaps if John were merely hypothermic, Fusco could lie on top of him or spoon him. But John has a gunshot wound on his side, and moving him or placing pressure on him could be deadly. Better if Fusco keeps to one side. But, of course, that leaves the other side unwarmed.

Reluctantly, Harold’s fingers leap to his tie. “I suppose it’s better than the alternative. Must I disrobe completely?”

Fusco shrugs. “We’re all wearing underwear here, chief.”

His carefully-constructed Full Windsor knot comes loose in his hands. “Close your eyes.”

Fusco scoffs. “What is this, grade school? I’m not gonna lose respect for you if I see you without your cravat on or-”

Harold snaps, “I am not in the habit of undressing in front of…”

“Got it, got it.” Obediently, Fusco closes his eyes. His tone is soothing, conciliatory. “I’m not gonna make a big deal out of it.”

Harold disrobes carefully, thoughtfully, hanging up each piece. If he must lose his dignity, he would prefer that it doesn’t get wrinkled. The tie hangs flat, the jacket goes over top of that, then the vest, and then there’s the shirt underneath to contend with and Harold’s fingers are numb and pink with cold. He’s nearly tempted to ask for help.

Perhaps more than anything, he’s jealous that Lionel can do this so easily. Without shame and without delay.

“Kinda takes forever, doesn’t it?” Lionel remarks. His eyes are still shut, his cheek pillowed on John’s shoulder. “All those layers.”

Harold struggles with his shirt buttons. “Don’t rush me.”

“I’m not rushing you,” Lionel protests, his mouth curled in a very faint smile. “I’m making conversation.”

Harold, who can’t quite get his shirtsleeves off over his wrists, fiddles with his cuffs. “Did you have a question to ask me?”

Lionel sighs, deep and slow. “Nothing specific, I guess. I just wonder about it sometimes. You have - close as I can figure - about a million suits. They all have all those fancy…” He pauses, searching for the word. “...Pieces and layers and accessories. Must take forever in the morning to figure out what goes with what and put the whole thing on. I always thought...” Fusco shifts a little against John’s side. “I always thought you must really care about how you dress.”

“Thank you,” Finch says, “for noticing. I suppose I can offer you some pointers, if you’d ever like to start…”

“Oh, _I get it_ ,” Fusco grumbles good-naturedly into John’s shoulder. “For the record, just because I think you look good doesn’t mean I want to look like you.”

“Then I suppose I’ll just thank you and move on,” Harold says as he peels back the covers and settles onto the creaking mattress. “Thank you, Detective.”

Fusco opens one eye in a flagrant violation of their agreed-upon boundaries, although he’s covered to the waist, so Harold supposes it hardly matters. “Really? _Detective_? Not that you and me are picking out curtains, but I kinda thought we were a little closer than that.”

“I don’t know that we’re on first name terms,” Harold murmurs as he scoots himself closer to John, “but given the circumstances…” He cuts himself off with a horrified yelp when his foot brushes against John’s icy calf.

Fusco has the temerity to giggle. “It’s fuckin’ awful, isn’t it? Feeling him like that.”

Beneath the covers, Harold begins chafing John’s arm, trying to bring any semblance of life back to him. “This is no laughing matter.”

Fusco stretches a little. He has his arm thrown across John’s chest and Harold finds that their hands brush together, purely by accident. His fingers are rough and surprisingly warm. “I know that,” Lionel says, peering at him with tired eyes over the rise and fall of John’s chest, “but what else am I supposed to do?”

Harold doesn’t have a good answer.

* * *

It’s a miserable night.

Harold sleeps less than he should, as a general rule. It’s a flaw of his, one that he’s keenly aware of every time he drifts off at his keyboard or works through the night and falls asleep to raucous birds chirping. When he sleeps well, it is under specific and fussy conditions.

None of which are being met.

The Pattersons were a wealthy family, but their commitment to rusticity at their country home is apparent in the quality of their mattress. There’s the shape of a spring pushing up against his hip. It’s a spacious mattress, but not enough for three, and Harold finds himself jammed flat against John, who becomes warmer and more restless by the hour. He sweats. He whines. He murmurs in his sleep.

Out loud, he says, “Joss,” once, clearly. 

Fusco is the true nightmare sleepmate. His alarm sounds once an hour, a persistent buzz beneath his pillow. When he rises to check on Patterson, he bumps into furniture, finds every creaky floorboard and stomps on it, slams the door, whispers too loudly and, upon his return, takes it upon himself to deliver consistent and largely context-free updates.

“Finally got the kid to keep toast down,” he remarks once before flopping into bed again.

On the rare occasions when he sleeps, he snores thunderously.

It’s a wonder, then, that Harold hasn’t killed him.

Perhaps it’s even more of a wonder that Harold doesn’t even want to.

It might be because he has better things to think about. The buzz of Fusco’s alarm serves as a good reminder to check for service. Fruitless so far, but it might not always be. It also serves as a reminder to check John over, to run his hand across John’s chest and feel his heartbeat thudding against his palm. This becomes unnecessary as John becomes an increasingly mobile sleeper, shifting painfully against Harold in the dark.

To pass the time, he thinks of what they will tell Patterson as he develops the wherewithal to ask questions, what lie they will sell the first responders if they are forced to call for help, what the odds are that he can slip away unnoticed and let Detective Fusco spin an altogether simpler web of lies.

He thinks about what Fusco said. About how Harold shouldn’t call him Detective anymore, because surely they’re closer than that. It doesn’t quite feel true. Not because Harold wouldn’t like it to be true. They’re not well-suited to each other, not obvious companions, but he finds Fusco’s presence to be surprisingly pleasant. He has an earnest warmth to him, a kind of unconditional friendliness that Harold has very little experience with. The kind he told himself long ago that he was too busy, too serious, and too intelligent to bother with.

But it’s nice. It’s nice to be called a nickname. It’s nice to be patted overly hard on the shoulder.

They’ve seen very little of each other since their trip to D.C. all those months ago. Coincidental, for the most part. Harold spends most of his time in the subway, where Fusco can never go. Harold has classes to teach. Fusco has John to look after. There’s very little time for socializing.

But it’s also by design, isn’t it? A conscious separation. On Harold’s part, if not on Fusco’s. Not out of security or incompatibility or distaste, but because when faced with a choice between Fusco’s life and the future of the world, he’d chosen Fusco. Because Fusco had been kind, because he’d been funny, because they took him hostage by threatening a security guard and he felt the need to apologize for it. Because he was good company. Because he’d been sweet in the robe and eyemask, flushed and vulnerable after a shower.

Sappy, perhaps. But he likes Lionel. Genuinely, he does.

Between them, John begins to stir. He lets out a low, ragged moan. The sound is terrible, sad, an almost-sob.

“Oh, no,” Harold whispers. “Oh, no, John, please don’t.”

Lionel sleepily throws an arm across John’s chest and squeezes him, firm and tight. “Shhhh,” he whispers. “You’re alright. We’re lookin’ after you. You go back to sleep.”

John takes a deep, struggling breath and then lets it go, lets Lionel squeeze it out of him. He breathes, eyes shut, brow creased, in and out until the breaths come soft and smooth and free. John nestles into the pillow and drifts off into stillness again.

Harold blinks at Lionel over the bulk of John’s chest. He never even opened his eyes, just reached for John blind. He’s moving a little - rocking, Harold supposes, like you might with a fussy child - and making the bed sway soothingly like a train car. Dry-mouthed, Harold says, “You’re a natural at this.”

“Thanks,” Lionel murmurs. “You know, I always dreamed of babysitting a tall, dark, handsome drink of murder. Lucky me.”

Within seconds, he’s snoring again.

* * *

Harold wakes up. He’s amazed, because it means that in spite of everything, he must’ve slept.

Lionel sits on the edge of the bed, stretching with the efficiency of a bored mechanic, deliberately making the adjustments he needs to function. Harold is nearly hypnotized by the shapes of muscles moving in his back, in his shoulders.

Lionel turns to face the bed and, seeing Harold awake, grins with unexpected brightness. “Well,” he says. “We made it.”

Outside, the wind still howls.

“Not to dampen your optimism,” Harold replies groggily, “but I won’t feel we’ve made it until John’s safely discharged from a hospital.”

Lionel nods solemnly, bends to collect his undershirt from the floor. “Know what you mean,” he says. “You don’t want to jinx it. But it’s morning and everybody’s still alive. That’s gotta count for something. You gonna be mad if I make eggs?”

Harold blinks at him. “Why would I be mad about that?”

He tugs the undershirt on over his head. “I dunno. You’re picky. If you need to fix yourself some kinda fancy breakfast soufflé to feel whole in the morning, I’m not gonna stand in your way.”

“Very gracious,” Harold says, plucking his glasses from the bedside table. “But I’m not much of a chef.”

Lionel twists around to look Harold in the eye. “Really? You don’t cook?” He seems almost personally affronted, as though his worldview has been jostled.

“Not unless I have to, no.” He polishes his lenses on the front of his own undershirt, which is a deeply unsatisfactory experience. He considers that, however miserable a night’s sleep he’s gotten, Lionel must’ve slept even less. “Although I’m happy to step in, if you’d like. You’ve done so much already.”

“No,” Lionel says. He cracks his back with an air of finality. “No, I’d like to cook something. Relax a little. You keep an eye on this one for me.” He gives John a firm thump on the thigh as he goes.

Harold peers down at John and is surprised to see John looking back at him. His eyes are dark and curious. “Finch,” he rasps, throwing a sidelong glance at Lionel’s retreating back, “what’s happening?”

Seemingly on its own, Harold’s hand settles against John’s cheek. It’s improper, he knows, but the whole thing is improper, and after this terrible night, to see John alive and breathing and talking and warm...well, perhaps it _does_ count for something. It takes Harold a few seconds to find the words: “I was going to ask you the exact same question, Mr. Reese.”

While he pours tiny sips of water past John’s cracked lips, while the fluttering sensation in Harold’s chest fades to a steady heartbeat, Harold explains himself. His state of undress. Lionel’s state of undress. John’s state of undress. He manages to sound very reasonable about the whole experience and hardly flushes at all. John, to his credit, is able to answer a few questions of his own. Yes, he came to the cabin to pursue Chase Patterson. Yes, it was the dead doorman who proved to be the threat, not Chase. Yes, Chase was forced to take an overdose. Yes, the doorman shot John, and John shot him in return. Yes, Chase’s wild story was completely true.

There’s a question John won’t answer.

“You know your life is your own,” Harold assures him, daring to rest his hand atop John’s. It’s warmer now, but clammy in the way that camping is. Sweaty and cool all at once. “You can go where you want, do what you want. I acknowledge that I’m not the most...the most generous when it comes to privacy, but I don’t think I’m inappropriate.”

John’s lip quirks a little, the faintest of smiles. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Harold allows. “But I had hoped that if you wanted to...to pursue a lead, you’d trust me enough to tell me. And I hoped that if you were going off to throw yourself into danger you might tell me.” He clears his throat. “Or someone. It doesn’t have to be me. Just _someone_ , Mr. Reese.”

John gazes intensely into the quilt, fingers plucking at the threads. His mouth is solemn, tight-lipped.

“What possessed you to come out here on your own?”

“It won’t happen again,” he says, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

John very deliberately changes the subject. “How'd you find me?”

“I didn’t,” Harold admits. The truth rankles at him, slightly. “Detective Fusco did. He found Patterson’s file on your desk and then he called me. Because he _worries_ about you.”

John reaches out with a shivering hand. “Was this – “and here he taps on Harold’s pale breastbone “ – Lionel’s idea?”

Harold sighs, “Of course it was.”

He cracks a tiny, shy smile. “Doesn’t seem like something you’d come up with.” He frowns, very slightly. “Is Patterson OK?”

“He’s alive. I believe Detective Fusco is serving him breakfast as we speak.”

John leans back a little in bed. “Then it’s all OK,” he murmurs.

 _No,_ Harold thinks to himself, _it isn’t._ Instead he says, “I don’t suppose you could eat something?”

His eyebrows lift. “I could try.”

“Then I’ll...I’ll go see about that.”

“Thank you, Finch.”

The couch in the living room is bare. The only signs of life are a blanket crumpled up on one end and an empty, tea-stained mug. Harold picks it up as he passes by.

As he walks into the kitchen, Fusco is asking, “What do you even do around here?”

“Cross country skiing,” Chase Patterson answers. He’s bent at the table, weary but still alive.

Fusco pulls a face at the thought. When his eyes fall on Harold, he softens. “How is he?”

Harold puts the dirty mug in the sink harder than he means to. “He’s deflecting,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. That’s John.”

“No, it isn’t. John is…” Harold searches for the world. “...Reticent. Stoic. Emotional, certainly, but...vague. Unwilling to deal in specifics.”

“You describing yourself?”

“ _Please_ take this seriously. You know as well as I do that he doesn’t run off like this unless something is seriously wrong.”

Lionel’s face falls a little. He’s remembering Colorado, Harold thinks. There’s a good deal Harold never learned about that trip, things he never got around to asking. “I know,” Lionel admits.

“You brought him back,” Harold presses. “When he ran away, after...”

Lionel snorts. “By telling him you were in trouble. What makes you think I can get it out of him when you can’t?”

Harold never knew that negotiations for John’s return hung so heavily on his own well-being. It’s an interesting idea: touching and troubling. “He relaxes around you. And I think...I think in the way that I can get past a firewall, you have a gift for getting past a person’s defenses.”

Fusco turns to him in quiet wonderment. His brows are knit, his eyes are suspicious, but he is not displeased.

“It must be the case,” Harold tells him, “otherwise I wouldn’t be speaking to you right now.” His face is suddenly hot and he’s not quite sure why.

With one heavy hand, Fusco claps him hard on the shoulder. It is, Harold thinks, meant to be affectionate. “I’m not making any promises,” he says, returning to his work with a small, secret grin. “But I’ll take a whack at it. You having eggs?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” Harold says. He considers for a moment. “Why are there eggs?”

Fusco’s eyes flick guiltily to Chase. His voice sinks to a whisper. “The guy was gonna hang around and watch our boy over there die. Supposed to take around eight hours, give or take. He, uh. Brought groceries.”

“Oh.”

Harold falls horribly silent. Fusco flips a murderer’s egg over easy.

“Guy’s still on the lawn,” Fusco remarks.

“Oh?” Harold answers.

He shrugs. “Just weird to think about.”

Harold flicks the curtain aside and peers into the gray-white gloom. “Should we bring him indoors, do you suppose?” Harold asks. “Or move him to the porch, perhaps?”

“Nah,” Fusco says, sliding the over-easy egg onto a plate. “Crime scene. Plus, it’s not worth the risk of going outside, right?”

Harold supposes not.

“So.” Fusco taps his spatula on the edge of the pan. “Come on. What am I doing here? Sunny side up? Over easy? Scrambled? I’m not doing omelets ‘cause there’s not a ton of food in this fridge and I’m saving the meat and stuff for dinner. One egg or two?”

Harold glances down at the pan. Greasier than he’d like, but the smell sends a pang of hunger through his stomach. “Two for me,” he says. “One for John, to start with. And some toast, if we have it.”

Lionel perks up. “John’s hungry? Hey, that’s a good sign.”

Harold supposes it is.

As Lionel slices off a yellow-white square of butter to drop in the pan, he’s struck by a sudden thought. “How does the big guy like his eggs?”

Harold freezes. How _does_ John like his eggs? They’ve shared breakfast together hundreds of times, or at least it feels that way. Usually coffee from a stall, pastries from a bakery, something you can grab and run with. A sit-down affair is rare.

He thinks until he remembers the diner that day. Eggs benedict, covertly recommended. “Can you poach?” he asks.

Fusco scoffs. “ _Can I poach?_ ” he repeats. “Go fuck yourself. Of course I can. You see a pot around anywhere?”

* * *

It’s never really daylight. It’s just white outside, an endless dirty white that shifts and moves but never breaks. Harold huddles on the porch for a long time. The steps down to the ground vanish into a thick layer of ice-encrusted snow. No one plows the roads up here. Or if they do, they haven’t gotten to it yet.

Harold checks his phone nervously, compulsively, until his fingertips go white and he has to come back in. Chase, now out of the woods, has relocated to his childhood bedroom. The living room is empty.

Outside the master bedroom, he hears them talking.

“...assuming the food poisoning doesn’t take me out first.” John speaks first. His voice sounds stronger, less pained. Still very soft and low.

“Pull that tough guy act all you want,” Lionel answers, “but you’re not gonna convince me you didn’t like your breakfast.”

“Alright. You missed your true calling, Lionel. You should’ve been a line cook.”

“Don’t I know it, pal.” A soft thwap, like a broad hand on sheets. “Come on. Take your medicine.”

“It knocks me out,” he murmurs.

“That’s the whole idea. You expect me to put up with you the whole goddamn day?”

Harold, with his ear pressed to the door, wonders how it is that Lionel can sound so completely dismissive and so hopelessly fond all at once.

“You’ve put up with worse,” John whispers.

“Yeah. Listen.” The gruffness in Lionel’s voice recedes. “Don’t do this again, OK?”

“I wasn’t planning to make it my hobby.”

“I mean it. This thing where you run off on your own and don’t tell anybody where you’re going…”

A soft sigh of disgust. “Not you too.”

“Yeah, me too. ‘Cause I’m the one who has to worry about your sorry ass. I’m the one that gets to sit around wondering if you went out for bagels or if you’re doing some crazy illegal shit that’s gonna become my problem later or if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere. I’m not Glasses. I can’t check this stuff. I just have to sit there and wonder.”

“I’m sorry, Lionel.”

“I don’t care that you’re sorry,” Lionel says to him, softly. “You scared the shit out of me.”

They’re quiet together, long enough that Harold wonders if he should open the door and interrupt the conversation.

“I should’ve called you,” John admits at last. “You’re my partner and I needed backup.”

A shy creak of bedsprings. “Was it something you thought you couldn’t trust me with?”

“No. Just something I wanted to do on my own. You’re right, Lionel. There was no reason not to ask for your help. You keep trying to be my partner. I should let you.” And then, “What are you doing?”

“Checking your temperature. You got a fever or something?”

“Maybe the drugs are getting to me.”

“Maybe.” He sounds almost sweet. “Go to sleep, big guy. Get your beauty rest.”

For a long time, Harold stands outside the door, listening to the quiet breathing, the gentle squeak of bed springs as bodies shift. He pushes the door open slowly, carefully.

Lionel dozes sitting up, his forehead braced against the headboard. He doesn’t quite snore, just makes a tiny, peculiar sound on each exhale. A little whine. Up until now, Harold hadn’t noticed his dark circles, how deep the lines around his eyes are.

 _When was the last time he really slept?_ Finch wonders.

John leans into Lionel, head pillowed against his thigh. His face is curiously slack, drugged and painless. Lionel’s fingers are snagged in the short, silvery hairs at the nape of John’s neck.

Harold settles against the doorframe and watches the two of them for longer than he cares to admit.

All too quickly, Lionel’s eyelids shift, flutter, and snap open. He sits up, face flushed, visibly embarrassed at having been caught sleeping at the job. He unsnares his fingers from John’s hair, offers Harold a tight, tired smile. “Tough nut to crack,” he says, tapping one fingertip on John’s skull.

“He is, isn’t he?” Harold’s voice is headier, raspier than he expects it to be. He clears his throat. “Did he tell you anything at all?”

“Not in so many words,” Lionel says, mid-yawn. “Just keeps saying it’s something he wanted to do himself. But...it’s Carter’s old case. He said her name in his sleep. Safe to say it’s a...it’s like that thing in Colorado. You know. Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Although,” he adds, with a conciliatory nod to Harold, “I guess we have one.”

“It’s a reasonable assumption, Detective.” Harold glances at the plate, now barren except for crumbs and smears of yolk. “He ate well, it seems.”

“Yeah. Think he’ll pull through. ‘Specially if we get him to a hospital today.” He watches Harold’s face intently, frowns a little at what he reads there. “That bad, huh?”

“Still no signal. And the roads are…” Harold lets out a tiny, trepidation-filled hiss.

“Still like yesterday?”

“Worse.”

Lionel grunts. “Yeah, we’re not driving on that.”

“The roads will clear. The storm will let up. Areas like this tend to have...robust road crews. It may take some time, but…”

“Right, right.” Lionel rubs at his temples. “So we just gotta...hold out.”

“Not the most encouraging news, I know.”

“Not like we got a choice, though.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“OK, then. So we’ll hold out.” He says it as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. As though every fiber of Harold’s being isn’t roiling with frustration. Lionel rakes a hand through his hair, considering. “You wanna shower?”

“Hmm?”

“Chase tested the shower while you were out on the porch. It’s...you know, a little gnarly. But the water’s hot and it’s not brown. You should get cleaned up while this guy’s out.” He taps John between the eyes. He barely stirs.

Harold exhales deeply. A shower sounds like heaven right now. “You know, I think I’ll do that.”

“Good,” Lionel says, leaning back against the headboard. “You looked like you were suffering.”

Harold supposes he was.

* * *

As promised, the water in the shower is not brown. The water pressure is terrible, coming in fits and starts, but it’s not brown.

It is also, arguably, hot. In the sense that it’s warmer than the air, and in the sense that when Finch leaves the narrow, soap-scummed cubicle of the shower, the bathroom mirror is fringed with steam.

His impulse is to be snobbish, but it’s a relief. He smells clean for the first time in hours. He’s warm, _comfortably_ warm. He wraps himself in a towel purloined from the cupboard. In the bathroom mirror, he combs his hair and brushes his teeth and pretends to not be exhausted.

In the bedroom, John sleeps. Lionel, having succumbed to exhaustion, lies beside him on the bed, his back to John’s unwounded side. He’s not peaceful, exactly. He’s curled up tight, forearm thrown over his eyes to block out the meager daylight. He looks like he’s braced against something.

Harold tightens the knot on his towel and unzips his overnight bag.

Lionel startles a little but doesn’t uncover his eyes. “’M awake,” he groans. “I’m not looking. I know you’re fussy.”

Harold cracks a small smile as he lays out his articles: underwear, socks, slacks, an undershirt and a thick fleece. He packed wisely, if a bit formally. “I suppose I have boundaries, if that’s what you mean.”

Lionel snorts. “We both know that’s not true.”

Cautiously, Finch lets his towel fall to the floor. “I’m conscious of my own boundaries, then.”

That seems to satisfy him. Lionel, eyes still covered, rolls onto his back and stretches out on the bed like a starfish. His socked foot brushes against Finch’s overnight bag. “Lemme know when you’re decent,” he says. “I think we should change John’s bandages.”

It’s a sound suggestion, but Harold’s filled with a faint sense of dread. It’s Schrodinger’s Gunshot Wound, Harold supposes, in that it’s either a stable situation or a dire one, and as long as he doesn’t look, it isn’t either. “I think you’re right, Detective,” he says as he drags his undershirt on over his head.

But there must be some trace of nerves, a hesitation in his cadence, because Lionel asks, “Worried about what’s going on under there?”

No point in denying it. “Yes. Our ability to care for John is limited, and…”

“Right,” Lionel agrees. “Medicine’s not in your wheelhouse. Not in mine either.”

He says this so casually that Harold is struck with envy. It’s the _realism_ of it, he thinks: the correct amount of trepidation, the correct amount of kindness, the total lack of fear. Almost without thinking, Harold asks, “How can you not be worried?”

“I am worried.” Lionel frowns a little as he says it, as though surprised. “I just…I guess I’m in control of what I can control. You know?”

Harold does know. He asks himself, _Am I in control of what I can control?_ He’s not quite sure.

But then, Harold always feels that he could be doing more.

“You dressed?” Lionel asks, piercing through Harold’s navel gazing.

Harold buttons his trousers, pulls his fleece over his head. “I am.”

Lionel uncovers his eyes and smiles, broad and almost innocent.

“What?” Harold asks him.

“I’m just trying to remember the last time I saw you without a tie.”

“This morning,” Harold reminds him.

“Oh.” He considers. “Yeah, I guess so.” He peels back the quilt and busies himself with hiking up John’s undershirt.

Harold picks up the first aid kit and begins to lay out his arsenal: alcohol swabs, antibacterial ointment, gauze, bandages. He feels equipped to care for a scraped knee. Not…this. “Sorry to hear I didn’t make much of an impression.”

“Well, it’s not that,” Lionel murmurs as he bares John’s stomach to the cool air. “I just had a lot on my mind.” He pauses, fingers resting on the barest edge of the medical tape that holds John’s bandage on. “Pull it off like a Band Aid?”

“I think slow and steady would be the better methodology here.”

“Yeah,” Lionel breathes. “I mean, like metaphorically.”

“Then, metaphorically,” Harold whispers as he puts one hand on John’s stomach, “please do.”

Lionel peels back the bandage gingerly, wincingly.

It’s not that bad.

Still bleeding, of course. But less than you’d think, given the circumstances. The wound’s angry red as they clean and dress it, but it’s about as well-behaved a gunshot wound as Harold has ever encountered. Which is admittedly a limited population.

“The bullet’s still in there,” Lionel murmurs as the first layer of gauze masks the wound.

“Unless you count surgery among your hidden talents,” Harold tells him, “it’ll stay there for the duration.”

It doesn’t feel right to speak above a whisper until they have the fresh bandage taped securely in place. They share a long, deep sigh of relief.

“Feeling better?” Lionel asks. There’s the barest hint of a shivering laugh in his voice and it’s slightly contagious.

“Very much so,” Harold says.

“I dunno what to do with myself now,” he says.

“If I may make a recommendation: try the shower.”

Lionel’s eyebrows lift. “That a hint, Glasses?”

“It’s an order, Detective.”

“Fair.” He throws his legs over the side of the bed. “Dunno how much better I’ll smell once I change back into this, though,” he adds, plucking at the front of his day-old shirt.

Harold taps the bag. “I brought spare clothes for you too.”

Lionel blinks at him.

“And a toothbrush,” Harold adds.

He seems, for a moment, swept off his feet. “You really think of everything, huh?”

“I try.”

Lionel settles his broad, calloused hand over Harold’s and pats it, gently. “You do a good job.”

The eye contact they share is halting and uncomfortably warm.

Then, rather quickly, he stands. “OK. I’m going. Don’t burn the place down.” He pauses, peers back at Harold around the doorway. “I mean it. Check on that fireplace if you get a chance. I don’t trust those things.”

“Oh,” Harold says, clutching his own hand. “Of course.”

* * *

When Harold checks the fire, he runs across Chase Patterson in the living room. He’s dressed now, quite comfortably, in clothing that he likely hasn’t seen since his teens. Although it’s large, overlarge, so perhaps it belonged to Chase’s father. He slumps on the couch, a paperback with foxed pages in his hand.

The firelight plays heavy on his face when he looks up. “You need something?”

“No,” Harold says. “No, I’m quite comfortable. I was sent to check on the fire, but I’m afraid if I could tell something was wrong at a glance, we might be beyond all hope.”

Chase glances at the embers. “It’s fine.” He cracks a small smile. “Don’t know your way around a fireplace?”

“An electric one,” Harold admits. “And I used to…I had a friend who I used to camp with, on occasion. But I left the manual labor to him.”

“Smart,” Chase says. He ruffles the pages of his book with his thumb.

“What are you reading?”

“ _God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater_. I wasn’t like…a huge reader, but. My mom gave me this one. So. Figured I’d get through it.”

Harold feels this horrible pressure on his gut. “Mr. Patterson, you certainly don’t have to open up to me if you don’t want to, but…are you alright?”

“I mean…” He hesitates. “No. That would be crazy.”

“You’re right,” Harold admits. “It was a stupid question.”

“I know what you meant,” Chase says. “You were asking if I needed anything. And in that way…yeah, I’m alright.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re doing what you can. How’s, um, how’s your friend? The cop. Riley.”

“Detective Riley is...stable. I hope. He’s alive. He’s woken up a few times. It’s almost the best we could ask for.” Harold clears his throat. “Thank you for asking. I know you two had at least one contentious interaction.”

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t like cops at the best of times. And your friend is a real hardass. But…he really tried to save me.” Chase leans closer to the flame. “If he brought you guys here, he _did_ save me.”

“I’ll have to remind him of that. I think it’s difficult for him to own all the good he does.”

“What do you…what are you? Like, I know your two friends are cops and that…almost checks out. But you never said what you are.”

“No, I never did. I prefer not to. Is that alright?”

Chase regards him quizzically. “You’re not a cop?”

“No.”

“OK, then.” Chase reaches out and plucks a bottle off the table. “I don’t, um, know if this is evidence but if you need…if your buddy needs painkillers or if you’re out of painkillers for yourself,” and he nods deferentially at Harold’s limp, “this is a pretty good one.”

“Thank you,” Harold says. “I think it _is_ evidence.”

Chase slaps the pills back onto the coffee table belatedly.

“We do have medication, but if we should run out…”

“Well,” Chase points out, “if we’re here long enough for you to run out, that’s a whole other problem.”

He is, unfortunately, correct.

* * *

Beside him, in the late afternoon gloom, John shifts. “Finch?” he whispers.

“Yes.” Laboriously, Harold rolls over. “Yes, I’m here.”

John blinks at him blearily. “I thought you were.”

Harold reaches out, puts a palm to John’s hot forehead. “Are you having trouble remembering things?”

“No.” He nuzzles hard against Harold’s hand. “Just trouble trusting what I see.”

Harold pushes the hair back from John’s brow. “Have you been seeing things?”

“Not since you brought me inside,” he says.

“Were you seeing things before then?”

John nods, his head gently butting into Harold’s palm. “Mostly…false memories. I forgot where I was for a while. I saw…a presence in the car. Not exactly Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, but…”

“But disconcerting, nonetheless. Hallucinations are a symptom of hypothermia?”

“Yeah. Not like you not to know, Finch.” He inches closer, so close that their noses are practically touching.

“Ordinarily I’d look it up, but…” Harold shrugs. “And hypothermia’s never been at the top of my list of concerns.”

“Even after the freezer truck?”

“Oh, goodness. With Leila. That was a long time ago.” His hand seems to have developed a mind of its own; he’s cradling John’s face now, running his thumb along John’s sideburns. “Perhaps I should have read up on it.”

“Hindsight is 20/20, Harold.” He reaches for Harold, sinks his fingers into the plush of the warm fleece. “I know I don’t always tell you everything.”

“You don’t have to tell me _everything_ , John. I just want to help you, if I can.”

“I…I don’t want you to have to guess if I’m OK. Either of you. I need to learn how to ask for you…for help.” He blinks in the dark, wet-eyed. “I don’t know how.”

The door creaks open, over-loud. Harold rolls over to see Lionel balking in the doorway, as though he’s seen something he shouldn’t. His hair is damp and curly from the shower. His towel hangs loose around his hips. He looks like he’s torn between the knowledge that his clothes are in here and a strong desire to bolt.

Harold props himself up on one elbow. “Will you be getting dressed today, Lionel?”

He exhales, shaky and sudden. Relief, Harold supposes. He’s not an intruder anymore. “Love to,” he says. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Harold watches him, curiously. A deep red flush creeps across Lionel’s chest, the bridge of his nose. And it’s not just from the hot water. “No, not at all. How long have you been showering?”

Lionel groans softly as he crosses the room and starts pulling his new clothes out of the bag. “I dunno. A week? I think I fell asleep standing up.” The eye contact he makes with John seems accidental, and Finch marvels at the way his voice, his attitude changes. He becomes very fond and very gruff all at once. “How’re you feeling, sleepyhead?”

“Worse,” John says, “now that you’re here.”

Lionel lobs a pair of balled-up socks directly at John’s head, where they bounce off harmlessly. Harold’s fully prepared to scold Lionel when he happens to see the very small smile on John’s face and thinks the better of it.

“I’m busting my ass,” Lionel says as he sorts through the clothes Harold laid out for him. “I carry you in from the cold with my own two hands, I warm your frozen ass with my own body…” Lionel pauses briefly to catch his socks when Reese throws them back to him. “I make you fucking eggs, and still you give me shit. You’re a monster.”

All in the delivery, Harold supposes. He says it with such warmth.

John casts a sidelong look at Harold. “You’re just gonna let him bully me, Finch?”

“I wasn’t going to. But I suspect you enjoy it.”

John seems repulsed, but also unable to refute that.

“However you get your kicks, pal,” Lionel says. Almost nervously, he adjusts his grip on the towel. “I’m gettin’ dressed. Do whatever you need to do.”

Harold snaps his eyes shut.

Close to his ear, John murmurs, “Really, Harold?”

“That’s what I said. Guy would never have made it through the Academy.”

“I’m sure that if you try, Detective, you can imagined at least a few other reasons why I might not have done well at the police academy.”

“Yeah. Come to think of it, I can.” Soft rustling. “This is nice.”

Harold opens his eyes almost involuntarily. Lionel has his back to the bed, to them. He sees the broad span of his shoulders, the freckles that dust and cover them, the two little dips in Lionel’s lower back, two spots where Harold would like to rest his thumbs. Then he realizes that John is watching his face, curious and amused.

Harold shuts his eyes tightly.

“Has Finch never dressed you before, Lionel?”

“Well, he got me the tux for that gala thing. But a tux isn’t all that comfortable, is it Mr. Bond?”

John sighs deeply. “I hate bow ties.”

Harold makes a slightly wounded noise.

“But you wear ‘em well, Finch,” John amends.

“Nice save, pal. Hey, Glasses, I’m decent.”

The sweater, Harold finds, was a good choice. Deep, dark blue complements Lionel’s eyes and skin, and the lushness of the knit imparts a softness to the rest of him. Immediately, Lionel pushes the sleeves up to the elbow, baring his thick forearms.

“You seem a little like your old self,” he says to John. “Think you could eat something?”

“I could try.”

“Alright.” He smiles, odd and faintly strained. “I’ll see what I can throw together.”

He leaves, altogether too quickly.

“Did something happen?” John asks, echoing Harold’s thoughts.

“I don’t know,” Harold says. “He’s tired, I suppose.”

“Lionel’s always tired.”

“Always?”

“He’s got other things to worry about,” John murmurs. “A kid. A job he actually cares about. Friendships, a lot of them. People you don’t even know.”

Harold does know, as it happens. He hasn’t given it much thought of late, but back in the early days, he made a casual study of all Lionel’s associations and friendly acquaintances. It’s a far-reaching, tangled social network that covers the entire city. He’s not quite sure how Lionel manages to maintain it so effortlessly. _Because the relationships are genuine,_ Harold suspects, _and because Lionel doesn’t see it as maintenance._

He plucks at John’s sleeve. “We could stand to take better care of him.”

“You gonna go help him?” John asks.

“Yes, I thought I would. Would you like another painkiller?”

“Yes,” John says. His voice is steady. His eyes betray the strain.

* * *

“There’s tea, right?” Finch asks when he finally tears himself away from John and joins Lionel in the kitchen.

Lionel’s standing at the kitchen counter, elbow-deep in chopped vegetables. “Up there,” he says, tapping a cabinet to his left. “Might be prehistoric, though.”

“I’ll settle for expired,” Finch says, flinging the cabinet open, “provided it’s caffeinated.”

It is, which is promising. The box is visibly aged, which is not. Finch opts to be brave and put a kettle on. “Well,” he says, firmly.

Lionel carries on chopping.

“As long as I’m here,” Finch continues, “you should put me to work.”

Lionel pauses, looks at him sidelong. “Kinda backwards.”

“I suppose it is. But...you’ve always deferred to me in my territory. It’s only right that I should defer to you in yours.”

“Sure. Can you mince garlic?”

“I can certainly make an attempt.”

“What you do is,” Lionel says as he pushes the cutting board over to Finch, “you hit the garlic with a knife until it gets real small.”

Finch wrinkles his nose. “I suspect there’s technique involved.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, taking a handful of sliced onions and dropping them, sizzling, into the pan. “But you’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.”

Finch breaks away a clove of garlic from the bulb, busies himself with peeling back the papery skin. He nods toward the pan. “What’s it going to be?”

“Well, I found some chicken and some vegetables. And I found a bag of rice, so I guess it’s a stir fry.” He gives Harold a look, faintly shy. “I shouldn’t be giving you shit about chopping. Not like I know how to cook.”

“I assure you, you’re more proficient than I’ll ever be. Cooking does interest me,” Harold sighs wistfully. “But I’m afraid I rarely indulge. No time.”

“I hear that, pal. If I had a little more time on my hands, I’d spend a hell of a lot less money on takeout and probably have less of a gut.” He pats his stomach, considers for a moment. “Not sure I’d put money on that. I don’t think so much about what I eat, but I think a lot about what my kid eats, you know?”

Harold does know, although he hasn’t thought about it much. He’s listened in on Lionel quite a bit over the years - less these days, because Harold trusts him - and at around 6 o’clock on certain days of the week, Lionel can reliably be heard clattering around his kitchen, boiling water and chopping vegetables and engaging in easy conversation with his son. On occasion, Harold has stopped himself from calling in to correct Lionel’s homework advice. That feels a step too far.

With more warmth than he expects, Harold says, “I really must thank you.”

Lionel squints at him. “For dinner?”

“For everything,” Harold says. “Everything you’ve done since we arrived here.”

He scoffs. “Oh, come on. What was I supposed to do? Take up space? I’m trapped in here with an assassin and a genius. I gotta pull my weight somehow.”

“You’re pulling _everyone’s_ weight. I...” Harold’s talking too loudly. He takes a moment to compose himself. He tries again. “I’m not good at this. I’ve taken a few First-Aid courses and I’ve learned enough to sound like I know what I’m doing, but there are so many ways you’ve found to care for John and for Chase and for…for me. You’re looking after all of us, Lionel. And you’re a natural.”

Lionel stirs the onions in the pan and shoots him a sly look. “What’d you call me?”

“Stop it.” Harold reaches out to nudge him, finds himself curling one hand around Lionel’s thick wrist. “I’m thanking you. Thank you, Lionel.”

“Alright,” he says, bashful under the weight of Harold’s gratitude. “Well, listen. You’re not exactly Florence Nightingale, but, you know, neither am I. You’re selling yourself short, pal. You don’t know how much just having you here is…is calming him down. Making him feel better.” He trails off. In a voice so soft Finch can barely make it out over the sizzling of the pan, he murmurs, “Makin’ me feel better too.”

Finch’s heart pounds. “Oh?”

Lionel struggles in silence for a moment. “I…fuck, I’m not built for this. All this sitting around, waiting for the right thing to do. You think I could’ve bandaged him up that first time on my own, without you telling me all the steps?”

“Yes,” Harold tells him, softly, his thumb grazing the inside of Lionel’s wrist. “I do think that.”

He shakes his head. “I would’ve missed a step or done it wrong. Or I never would’ve brought him inside; I’d just throw him in the back of the car and probably get us both killed driving down the mountain. Everything in me is telling me to just try to get him to civilization and fuck the consequences. The only reason I’m not going crazy with what-ifs right now is because you’re here and you got a plan.”

“You care very much for John, don’t you?”

“He’s my partner. He’s more than that; he’s…” Lionel swipes his forearm across his eyes. The onions, he’d likely blame. “I owe that guy a lot. I can’t just let him die out here in the woods.”

“I know just what you mean.” Harold grips his other arm around the bicep, holds him still and close. “He’s not going to die. We’ve taken excellent care of him – the best we possibly could - and we’re going to get him help. Understand?”

Lionel nods a little, close enough that when Harold presses his forehead to Lionel’s, Lionel presses back. He takes a long, shaky breath. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while. Before this, I mean.”

“I feel the same way,” Harold says. “A conversation here, a brief meeting there. I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too. Um. Maybe it doesn’t make sense, but I always feel safer when I’m working with you.”

“No,” Harold murmurs as their lips brush together, “I know exactly what you mean.”

Lionel kisses shyly, tentatively. As though he’s not certain he’s welcome here. Harold pulls him a little closer to show him that he is. His lips are soft and faintly chapped; his jaw is sandpapery with day-old stubble. His massive hands come to rest on Finch’s hips like a guide and like a question. He makes a muted sound as their lips part, perhaps a whine, perhaps a gasp.

All at once, Lionel shatters the moment, takes a sudden step back from Harold. “What the hell are you doing?”

Harold’s ready to defend himself or apologize for overstepping bounds when he realizes that Fusco isn’t even looking at him; he’s looking at the kitchen door.

John leans heavy in the doorframe.

“Mr. Reese, what were you thinking?” Harold gasps, crossing the kitchen to take John by the elbow.

“The hell is wrong with you? Stay in bed,” Lionel snaps as he takes John’s other side.

John murmurs, rather nastily, “Did I interrupt something, Lionel?”

“Please put him at the table for now. Where we can keep an eye on him. Really, John,” Harold says as his thudding heart subsides, as Lionel hauls him gently to a seat at the table, “what did you think you were doing?”

He shrugs. “I wanted to see if I could walk. And dinner smelled good.”

“It’s just onions, you dummy,” Lionel snarls as he pushes in John’s chair. “Alright, hang on, I gotta take care of dinner. Don’t try to walk anywhere, OK?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Lionel.”

Chase pokes his head into the kitchen. “What’s happening?” He spies Reese. “Oh. Hey. You’re up.”

“Perfect. Kid, will you keep this idiot entertained?”

Chase, surprisingly unbothered by being called “kid”, sits at the table opposite John.

Harold stands at Lionel’s elbow again and starts mincing garlic.

“Should we have done that?” Lionel whispers, under the sizzle of the peppers that he drops into the pan.

“I certainly don’t regret it,” Harold answers, letting their shoulders bump. “But perhaps it was a little forward of me.”

“ _Forward_.” Lionel snorts. “Who are you, Jane Austen? No, I’m talking about…about him.” His voice drops even softer. “Not that I didn’t…I just don’t wanna stand in between you two.”

Harold thinks that over for a long, slow moment before he understands Lionel’s whispering and anxious sidelong glances. “John and I aren’t together,” Harold whispers.

Lionel’s brow furrows. “ _Why not?”_

* * *

He ponders the question over dinner. _Why not?_ He finds no shortage of answers. Because they’re partners in this and it would be unprofessional. Because it would create another attachment, yet another conflict of interest. Because it’s one further complication.

Although, he reflects as he exchanges a shy glance with Lionel, there’s nothing but complications here.

And he’s not ignorant of the way that John’s sense of duty and loyalty can become, on occasion, something ragged and hungry and altogether more powerful. Not anymore than he’s ignorant of the way that Lionel’s gruff reprimands carefully mask his absolute tenderness, or of the way that John’s snide digs at Lionel mask a terrible neediness. Or of his own beating heart.

 _It’s all_ , Finch reflects as he watches John wince in unexpected pain, as Lionel murmurs, “Don’t hurt yourself, dummy,” while casting a fearful look in Harold’s direction, _very complicated_.

* * *

“Finch,” John asks as Harold helps him into bed after dinner, “what did I walk in on back there?”

Harold considers for a long moment as he settles into bed beside John. “An unwise moment. But not an unhappy one.” He intertwines his fingers with John’s. “You’ve grown closer to him these past months, haven’t you?”

John remains stubbornly silent on that point.

Harold presses on. “I’ve become very fond of him. And I know that he cares for you, deeply. Just as I do.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Finch?”

“You told me earlier that you need to learn how to ask for help. How to reach out to someone.” Harold inches closer to him. “What I’m suggesting is that, at this moment, there are no wrong answers.”

They’re so close their hips are pressing together under the sheet. Gingerly, John lets his forehead come to brush against Harold’s.

There’s a tiny scuff of shoes by the door.

Harold turns. “Lionel?”

A peculiar creak, like a floorboard being stepped on for altogether too long. Guiltily, Lionel peers in the door again. “Yeah, I was just thinking. Big guy’s out of the woods, there’s a spare bedroom and I’m just gonna…”

At around the same moment Harold says, “Don’t be ridiculous,” John says, very firmly, “No.”

They trade sidelong glances, silently form strategies.

“We need you,” Harold insists, very firmly.

“You run warm,” John adds.

Lionel’s brow furrows. “You’re not freezing to death anymore, pal.”

“If not for warmth,” Harold presses, “then for comfort.”

Lionel shoots a questioning glance at John.

In the softest of all possible voices, John admits, “You’re a good cuddler, Lionel.”

The sound he makes is one of baffled defeat, but at last he crosses to the bed and sits on his appropriate side. “For the record,” Lionel says, peeling the sweater off over his head, “you’re both losing your minds.”

He and Harold take a quiet moment to strip down to their underclothes, back to back on opposite sides of the bed.

“Think we’ll get out of here tomorrow?” Lionel asks

Harold entertains the possibility. “I hope so. The storm appears to be abating. We’ll know more in the morning.”

“Here’s hoping.” Lionel turns and stops dead at the sight of John’s arm stretched out flat on the mattress, inviting him to sleep close against John’s side. “You OK, bud?”

John beckons him weakly with a curl of his hand. “Don’t ask questions, Lionel.”

“’k,” he murmurs as he slides under the sheets next to John. “But you gotta say something if your arm starts to fall asleep.”

“I’ll do that, Lionel.” John turns to his other side. “This OK, Harold?”

“I think so,” Harold says as he allows John to pull him close. “We’ll see.”

There are a few tremors as they settle in. Harold needs a pillow to go between his knees. Lionel yelps once and snarls, “Watch the hand, pal,” in John’s ear while John smiles to himself, secret and mean.

It doesn’t take them long to find a kind of comfort in the situation. Harold lets his hand rest high on John’s chest, fingertips on his clavicle, palm on his beating heart. Lionel curls around him, heavy arm across John’s chest, heavy thigh across John’s thigh.

They find a quiet breathing rhythm, all pressed together. The rise of Lionel’s chest becomes the rise of John’s chest becomes the rise of Harold’s chest and they all press together, relax together.

“It was Joss’s case,” John says suddenly in the dark. “I thought that if I could solve it, I could be closer to her.”

“Oh, John,” Harold whispers.

“I’ve been there, pal,” Lionel murmurs, head pillowed on John’s shoulder. “I miss her too.”

“You’re not going call me an idiot, Lionel?” John asks.

“You _are_ an idiot,” Lionel grumbles, tightening his arm across John’s chest. “But no. I told you; I’ve been there.”

“What about you, Harold?”

“Of course not,” he purrs, letting his hand glide up to cradle John’s sharp jaw, to feel his fluttering pulse. “Never.”

They hold each other like that, silently, for a long time. On the edge of sleep, Harold lets his other hand rest over Lionel’s where it’s draped on John’s chest. He squeezes, once.

Sleepily, Lionel squeezes back.

* * *

Cool, blue sunlight lazes across the room, turning their rumpled bedsheets, the rise of Lionel’s broad shoulders, the hollows of John’s clavicle into a glacial topographical map. Harold barely knows where he is anymore.

He listens hard: there’s a trickle of water somewhere, the crackle of the fire in the next room. Somewhere outside, a bird is calling. In the distance, there’s a low, droning grind, like metal on rock.

Harold sits bolt upright, strains his neck. “Lionel,” he hisses, reaching across John’s body to shake him by the shoulder. “I think there’s a plow.”

He jerks awake with a loud grunt, puts his feet on the floor before he opens his eyes. “There’s…what?” he groans.

“Do you hear that?”

Together, they listen for a long moment.

“Oh, fuck,” Lionel mumbles as he rockets out of bed.

He’s gone in an ungainly, half-asleep flash. Harold throws back his own covers and sets about finding his trousers.

“Harold?” John murmurs, shifting to look at him. “Is that a snowplow?”

He buckles his trousers. “I believe it is. Be ready to move.”

He gets dressed and leaves the room to discover Chase Patterson putting his affairs in order and the door hanging wide open. Harold steps out onto the porch to discover that Lionel - frantic in boots, an open coat, and his underclothes - is standing in the now-clear street, engaged in tense conversation with an elderly man who has attached a plow to the front of his pickup truck.

“Didn’t even know there was people up here,” the old man says. “Nobody’s used that cabin in ten years, since that thing happened with the Pattersons. Awful shame. Nice folks.”

“Listen, old timer,” Lionel interrupts. “You can reminisce later. We gotta get our friend to the hospital.”

“Can’t call for help up here; signal’s for shit. But…” The old man clambers down from his truck. “I can help dig out your car. Give you a jump if you need it.”

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you. I…” Lionel turns, sees Harold on the porch. He grins, broadly but weakly. “Finch, we…” He doesn’t have the wherewithal to finish the sentence.

Chase Patterson pushes by, wearing the fine wool coat he arrived in and carrying a small tote bag of keepsakes. “There are shovels in the shed!” he calls to Fusco. “I’ll help.”

“Should you be exerting yourself?” Finch asks.

Chase shrugs, crunches off into the snow. “I just gotta get out of here, man.”

Back inside, Harold helps John to sit on the edge of the bed, pieces his clothes back together and slips his feet back into his snow-scuffed black shoes. He manages to stop himself from tsking. The whole outfit is destroyed, of course, but John has many like it at home.

“I never let myself believe I’d get out of here,” John murmurs as Harold helps him into his coat. “Kind of hard to imagine what happens next.”

“I can foresee a few possibilities,” Harold tells him, adjusting his lapels, “but perhaps it’s better not to plan for these things.”

“Doesn’t sound like you, Harold.”

He looks into John’s face, his mouth quirked in a dry little smile, his eyes shiny with affection and something like fear. Harold pulls the coat closer around him. “Hospital first,” he says, “and we’ll figure it out from there.”

* * *

As Lionel guides the car around a sharp turn and as Harold clutches the bar over the passenger seat, Harold’s phone finally picks up a signal.

His first course of action is to call the nearest hospital and tell them what to expect.

His second course of action is to look up a map of their route and formulate a plan.

“Lionel,” he says at last. “There’s a diner coming up on your right. I want you to drop me off.”

Lionel frowns. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This will all be far easier for you to explain if I’m not involved. Detective Riley pursued a case without backup. You went looking for him. You got snowed in. I was never here.”

“You were never here,” Lionel repeats. “OK. Everybody get that?”

In the back seat, John and Chase both assent, although John sounds weak and Chase sounds unsure.

“You gonna be OK getting back?” Lionel asks.

“Of course I am.” Harold taps the window. “This is it. If you please?”

The diner is a dingy little place. A grungy sign, a slushy and pot-hole filled parking lot. But not an empty parking lot. Maybe he won’t stand out too much. Harold steps out, leans against the car. “Lionel,” he says. “Drive safely. John…”

They make eye contact through the back window. There’s no fear in John’s eyes anymore. Just a bottomless, affectionate kind of certainty.

He pats the side of the car and steps away. “Just drive,” he says.

Lionel’s car leaves the diner parking lot in a squeal of rubber.

Harold goes to get breakfast.

The diner is not, precisely, a charming place. But it does have a sort of lived-in folksiness to it. The seats are well-worn. People know the waitresses by name and she knows their names too. Harold orders a hot breakfast. He drinks his tea – a Lipton’s tea bag bobbing in hot water – and watches a lone slice of cherry pie rotate under glass as he waits for his ride home to arrive.

He must look very calm.

* * *

Harold has a key to John’s apartment, of course. He has keys to all of his assets’ homes, whether they know it or not. Consciously or unconsciously, John knows it.

So it doesn’t feel like a break-in when, a few mornings later, he slips into the loft, arms full of groceries.

It’s a little eerie, Harold thinks as he unloads the food onto John’s kitchen counter, how little the loft has changed since he purchased it. When searching for furnishings, he’d gone simple, elegant, and utilitarian. He assumed that would be to John’s tastes. He’d also hoped that the simplicity of the space would give John room to grow, that he might fill the emptiness with books or houseplants or art.

He never seems to have found the time.

 _Aside from the guns at the back of the closet,_ Harold amends, belatedly.

As he fills up John’s empty refrigerator, he wonders if John struggles to open up to himself, as well as others.

Harold rests against the counter and, after a few moments of restraint, calls Lionel.

He picks up on the second ring and immediately asks, “You make it back OK?” His voice is raspy with exhaustion and waiting room coffee.

“How is he doing?” Harold asks.

“You _know_ how he’s doing,” Lionel answers.

Harold, of course, has been checking the hospital’s records obsessively. But it’s disconcerting that Lionel should know that with such certainty. “I was pleased to read of John’s successful surgery and projected swift recovery,” he says. “But I meant emotionally.”

“Oh.” Lionel clears his throat. “Tired. But, uh. Good, I think. He tried to trip me with his crutches. I feel like that’s good news.”

Inexplicably, Harold does too. “And the policework involved?”

“It’s a goddamn mess,” Lionel acknowledges. “But it’s going OK. Chase got released from the hospital a few days ago and he’s cooperating. Antsy to get back to France or wherever, but it’ll all get squared away in the end. Plus or minus a few persons of interest.”

“Good work, Detective. I have another favor to ask.”

“Sure,” he says. “Fire away.” He sounds tired, but not resentful.

“When John is released from the hospital, will you bring him back to his apartment? The address is…”

Lionel chuckles gently. “I know where he lives, pal.”

Harold glances around at the tasteful furniture, the white walls, the stylish blankness of John’s loft. It’s hard to imagine that Fusco has set foot in this place, that his mere presence didn’t impart some texture or warmth to the place. “Will you?” Harold asks again.

“Of course,” Fusco says.

* * *

The door opens with an unconscionably loud bang. They’re here.

“Home sweet home, big guy,” Lionel says as he guides John over the threshold. John leans on a crutch, moving stiffly.

He immediately brightens when he sees Harold emerging from the kitchen, discarding a dishtowel as he walks. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Harold takes his elbow, delicately. “I didn’t want you to come home to an empty house. Let’s get you some rest.”

“Feels like all I’ve done is rest, Finch,” John says as they help him across the loft and over to the bed.

“Perhaps, but I’ve read your medical file. You’re due for more of it.” Finch pulls back the duvet, revealing fresh sheets.

John’s bed is a little high and Lionel half-lifts him into it. Interestingly, John doesn’t complain. Only grips hard at Lionel’s shoulder.

“There you go,” Lionel murmurs as he sets him down. “You, uh.” He still can’t quite look at Harold; his eyes slide from Harold’s face to his tie to his hands. “You gonna take it from here, Glasses?”

“I certainly could, if I had to,” Harold says. “But won’t you stay?”

“I mean, I could. I’m not picking up my kid until tomorrow. But I don’t want to get in your w - ” He cuts himself off with a yelp as John drags him forcefully into bed.

“Alright, Lionel?” Harold asks as John gives him a rather gentlemanly helping hand onto the mattress.

“I’m fine. What does it take to get you to calm the hell down?” he asks John. “Is it horse tranquilizers? Will that do it?”

“Don’t know. Never tried. He missed you, Finch,” John purrs as Finch alights on the bed beside him. “He wouldn’t admit it, but he wanted somebody to hang around in the waiting room and be worried with him.”

Harold’s flooded with warmth. “Did you?”

Looking down at his hands, Lionel grumbles, “Yeah, alright.”

Harold reaches across John’s body to pat Lionel’s knee. “And did you miss me, John?” Their faces are awfully close together.

“I knew you were watching.” His hand slides up along Harold’s arm, to his shoulder, to his throat, to his jaw. “But yes.”

He closes the last few inches between them. John is shockingly gentle as he tips Harold’s head back, comfortably firm as he holds him in place. He kisses like it’s a sacrament, like it’s a promise. Harold just tries to keep up.

A tiny flurry of commotion breaks the spell; apparently Lionel tried to slip out of bed and John seized him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him back. Now he’s sprawled on his back besides John, trying half-heartedly to make his exit.

“If you want me to leave you guys to it, I can…”

John descends on him, shoving him flat to the mattress. The contrast, Harold thinks to himself, is frankly astounding. In every way that John is tender and considerate and gentle with Harold, he is vicious and forceful and mean with Lionel.

John finally releases him, allows Lionel to lie gasping on the bed, his lips red and bitten, his hair tousled. “Think I get it now,” he pants.

Harold pats his face. “Bless you, dear.”

“Took you long enough,” John translates, curling his fingers in Lionel’s hair like he means to yank it.

“I mean, we’re not…” He swats John’s hand away and makes eye contact with Harold, as if seeking sanity. “We’re not doing anything right now. Right? He just got out of surgery.”

“No. No, I think it would be unwise to put too much strain on John at this time. Although I suppose there are options that would demand less of John, physically.”

“I can think of a few possibilities,” John murmurs, casually fiddling with the hem of Lionel’s shirt.

“I’d be interested to hear about them,” Harold says, letting his hand run along John’s thigh. “But I think that can wait until after dinner, don’t you?”

Wordlessly, John concedes.

“Will you help me get ready?”

“Yeah,” Lionel murmurs, still piecing himself back together. “Yeah, I got it.”

“I thought I’d return the favor,” Harold says to him as they cross the loft to the kitchen. “I made salmon. Please be impressed.”

“Sure. You’re a culinary genius. What…” He takes Harold by the wrist and brings him to a stop. “What am I in this?”

Gently, silently, Harold bullies Lionel into letting him take both of his hands and hold them, very tightly. “You care for John?”

“’Course I do.”

“You care for me?”

Lionel colors a little. “Starting to,” he murmurs.

“We want you here. We both do.”

Lionel’s color deepens.

“If you don’t want to stay, you don’t have to…”

“Didn’t say anything about that,” Lionel interrupts. “I just need to know why you want me here when you got him, and…” Lionel trails off into this fraught, worried place where he isn’t welcome.

“Because he needs you,” Harold says. “Just as he needs me. And just as I…just as I’m starting to need you.” He squeezes Lionel’s hands. “I need a partner in this. In being there for him.”

Lionel leans in. The kiss he presses to Finch’s mouth is warm, is devoted, is diligent, is kind. He lifts Finch up a little as he does it, onto his toes. “You got one,” he murmurs into Harold’s soft mouth. They pause a moment, hand in hand, nose to nose. “So, what now?”

“We’ll get dinner on the table.”

“And?”

“And then we’ll see.”

“Not like you, Finch,” he says as they step into the kitchen, as Lionel starts taking plates from the cabinet. “All this wait and see stuff.”

Harold leans against the oven, warm without and within. “It’s something I’m learning.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for unknown land](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24484444) by [st_aurafina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina)




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